


When he takes me in his arms (the world is bright)

by RobbieTurner



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Epistolary, Hannibal responds, M/M, Romance, Will writes to Hannibal, pós-season 2 finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobbieTurner/pseuds/RobbieTurner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Who are you to turn me into your Patroclus? I was Hector, Dr. Lecter. And for a moment or two I thought I had won.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>(And by winning I would also lose, because I try to imagine an entire life without your kisses and I cry, I cry endlessly.)<br/></i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A series of imaginary letters exchanged between Hannibal and Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. From Will to Hannibal

**Author's Note:**

> So, I tried to imagine what sort of letters would Will send to Hannibal while being in the hospital, and how Hannibal would respond, even though a correspondence between the two of them would be very unlikely. I wrote this in my mother tongue and now I'm translating to English. I really hope you enjoy

Dear Devil,

 

Part of my heart lies buried beneath the garden of our last encounter. I would have made shovels out of my nails and dug it out, for you. There’s rich earth in my wounds, along with the smell of your cologne. I never changed my own. Tiny trace of marital rebellion: I still reek of death and the aftershave you hated. Would you ignore that and allow me again on your table? Would you take my bones too, Hannibal, and build our nuptial chamber with them? Write me an epithalamium. Invite me back to your Hades.

 

Know that my poetry hasn’t ended with you. Here, in this cold hospital bed, I still dream of the monsters that I married. The days are blue and I’m forever in white, a frozen bride waiting for the groom. When you think about us, you picture ancient gods and fire and eternity but we are simpler. We are Billie Holiday singing _My man_ , the victim offering a song to her tormentor. _It cost me a lot but there’s one thing that I got it’s my man_. But I don’t even have that. I don’t have you, or Alana, or Abigail, or Beverly. Like a black hole, you took me whole, along with everything I loved. Perhaps you are right; perhaps you are more god than man. But what did you hope to find in me? This is a barren body for your intent, my Zeus. Swan or bull, you couldn’t impregnate me.

 

Was it entertainment, Hannibal, what drove you to me? Was it your perverted version of love? Maybe both tangled with a lust for my flesh. You made love to me when you killed me. You got hard on the thought of eating me. Was it worth it, Hannibal? Did you get the kick you wanted? Did you have fun? You left this city haunted, tainted. You unmade a galaxy of lives and risked your own while doing so. Tell me, my love, was it worth your while?

 

And now you build your next lair, a monster still nursing its recent wounds. I’m trying to picture your mausoleum. Is it in Rome? Venice? Florence? I don’t know where to address this letters. I wish I could follow you to the depths where your accent was born. To which renaissance painters do you pay your tributes? Which wines now touch your lips?

 

They heal me fast. Soon I’ll be free to be ill once more. I would describe the cut to you, the hecatomb you left on my skin, but you probably know it from memory alone. The scar is bended like a half-moon, like a C-section gone wrong, like the fruit of your loins was born too soon, already dead. You should know, my dear surgeon, that my heart is further up. Next time, tear it from its roots.

 

One of us was the dream and one was the träumen, Hannibal. I know I went as deep as you. My hands are rough. And now I back away from the passive, feminine role to which you condemned me, dominated by virile anger. I have what is raw and rude in my throat, I can too draw offenses with my mouth. Who are _you_ to turn me into your Patroclus? I was Hector, Dr. Lecter. And for a moment or two I thought I won.

 

(And, by winning, I would also lose, because I try to imagine an entire life without your kisses and I cry, I cry endlessly.)

 

I’m tired of metaphors and long for a few clichés: you by my side when I wake, waiting with flowers. Carnations, maybe, for this shattered heart. Red carnations and a kiss in the rain. We could resume, however briefly, what was once so tender. I wouldn’t know how to choose between dying or killing. Both, perhaps? We could go to hell together.

 

Without hope of an answer, just to assure you:

 

Yours

 

Will Graham.


	2. II. From Hannibal to Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos <3 I hope you like this chapter

Beloved Persephone,

I try to describe what would be better revealed in a drawing: the city that houses me is an ancient one and, a cliché you might like, the infant light touches my lonely cot. Under me the ocean shall swallow this city whole in less than a hundred years’ time. I’ll be gone before the water touches my feet and this letter touches your hands. It’s interesting that you sniffed me, when I'm the hunter. The cologne that impregnates your letter, as foul as it is, doesn't mask the true aroma of what I had between my between, in my arms, moaning and unmade. 

You still mark my bed, Will, and I yours. I know that sleep comes to you just barely. That you dream, half- awake, of my body over yours and inside you your fingers give you an illusion far too brief to be satisfactory. My boy of flesh and bones, I would like to thrive knowing that you suffer too. 

What drove Hades to Persephone if not the promise of ever-lasting spring? Even if for his eyes only. I can relate to this sort of egoism. When you deceived me you robbed me of my spring. You must know, William, that I would condemn this entire world to winter if I needed to. I would let it sink in snow and keep the last flower for myself. Why should I be merciful? 

I am happy to know of your recovery. Thanks to the boundless indiscretion of Miss Lounds I know all of its details (I hope you regret that if your act wasn't so she would be forever in silence, now). There are photos of you, dearest Will, raw and bare like a butterfly. I'm jealous, I confess. You are mine alone to desecrate. I know what to do with you. What to take and what to devour. So don’t hunt me, William, for I would love and destroy you in equal measure. Stay in the New World. Grow old surrounded by your pack of strays, get married again. Promise to some woman what you know to be forever mine. Have a child, maybe two. Let the food cooked by her make you thinner every year. Waste your soul in the mediocrity you will pretend to desire. Then ask yourself every night if isn't that the punishment for betraying me. 

We shall see. Were you born to be a hero, Will? Were you born to be unhappy? 

(Imagine a life without my kisses and cry, cry endlessly.)

Always yours,

Hannibal Lecter 

Ps: I took the liberty of sending you a proper perfume. As the papers of divorce remain untouched and you are still legally mine, be an obedient wife and wear it for my sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me at supernintendolegolas.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> I used the word traum in german, meaning dream, because is very similar to the word trauma in english, meaning wound (inspired by the movie Shutter Island).   
> I had two betas this time. Thank you Lorage, and thank you Polly. Again, any remaining mistakes are my fault. Kudos and comments make me very happy. Thank you for reading.


End file.
